


When Push Comes to Shove

by doorwaytoparadise



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: BAMF Martin Crieff, M/M, Pre-Slash, mild Douglas whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 22:04:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6168322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin knows he's not that great at a lot of things, but when Douglas gets taken, he proves that "rescuing" is something he's actually not bad at.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Push Comes to Shove

**Author's Note:**

> I had a desire for some heroic Martin fic that was both believable and serious, so this is the result.

Douglas is gone. Martin can feel a band tightening around his chest, a roaring in his ears, and his hands start to shake, because _Douglas is gone._ Someone took him, snatched him from the airfield and dragged him off, and Martin has no idea where he could be, only that he's _not here_ , like he damn well should be. But the evidence is undeniable, the mess around the portakabin, overturned chairs, papers strewn everywhere, pens and books and miscellaneous junk flung around the floor like a fierce wind swept through the office. Douglas' keys sit under his desk, his Lexus unmoved in the parking lot. He hasn't answered his phone.

=

Hours and hours and reports and questioning and searching yield nothing, and Martin is left to stand in the middle of his little attic room and fight the urge to scream. He wants to yell, to run, to break something, explode until Douglas is back and fine and smirking and teasing and _safe_. Martin sits heavily on his bed and does none of that, silent and tense. He holds his mobile, clenches his hand around the plastic cover, and dials before he can stop himself.

Someone answers. Martin snaps to attention immediately, because the voice isn't Douglas, isn't even close to the smooth, calm baritone. It's a sharp, cruel sound, laughter and taunting, and the man on the other end sounds victorious. Martin has no idea what he's talking about, why he's rambling like he's won something, until he says Douglas' name (not quite his name, he calls him 'Richardson', but even so), and Martin feels his blood run cold. Because from the speaker comes a familiar voice, filled with pain. A sharp yelp, a breathless cry, dull thuds and the sound of flesh meeting flesh. Martin goes cold, blank, stony. The man laughs again, asks in a mocking voice if Martin won't come join them for some fun. Douglas' voice rises in the background, a warning, a protest, a ' _no, don't, stay away, Martin-!'_ and he cuts off with a choked sound. The man tells Martin the address, arrogant and sure, and hangs up.

Martin lets the hand holding his mobile fall to his side, numb and shaken. He has never heard Douglas sound like that before, and he never wants to ever again. He can hear the cruel laughter echoing in his head, reverberating right down to his core, sinking into the icy horror that has overtaken his whole being. The address burns in his mind like a brand, and suddenly he is angry.

Rage ignites like a fire, rushing through his veins and he lets it come, lets it burn and rise and crackle until it nearly overwhelms him, and then...he lets it sink down, tightly reined and ready to be wielded. Martin breathes deeply, and starts to think.

Martin Crieff would be the first to agree that he is not very impressive. Small and nervous, he presents a somewhat laughable picture. Only MJN has ever seen, will likely ever see, the true strength he bears. Only MJN knows that Martin Crieff is a man with a core of steel, tempered and unyielding. Martin himself does not think he is clever or efficient or powerful. He does not think he is a lot of things, and he is not overconfident in what he can do. This means he knows exactly what he is capable of when push comes to shove, and this, _this_ isn't so much a shove as a full-on body tackle.

Martin lets his fury, righteous and protective, thrum like lightning beneath his skin, alive and ready. Lightning, he thinks, and he remembers that while he is not a man competent at a lot of things, he was, first and foremost, an electrician's son. He steels himself, digs into his steady core, and walks out to his van.

=

The address they gave him is a place he knows, a warehouse type place on the outskirts of Fitton. A small and out of the way storage facility, perfect for hiding. It is only their misfortune that Martin is familiar with this place, the location and the layout. He knows the owner, helped the man move boxes and large furniture from inside that very building. It is with little difficulty that Martin gets there undetected.

He slips around the outside, ignoring the silence and how it chills him with what it could mean, and finds the utility box and opens the panel. He eyes the wires and switches a moment, remembers what his father taught him about fixing power outages, and twists the knowledge. The day is turning to dusk, sky darkening as the sun sinks, and the lights in the warehouse go out.

There are cries from inside, as Martin stands at a back entrance, dismay and annoyance, and he tightens his grip on the only weapon he had on hand, a sleek lead pipe nearly as long as his arm. He hastens to get into the ideal position, aware that he's given himself an advantage, but one that will only work for so long. The backup generator will turn the power back on soon enough and he has to get this right. He counts down the minutes in his head.

_5 minutes._

He carefully shuffles through the darkness, a vague map of the room in his head from days past. He doesn't know how many men are here, and he listens carefully.

_4 minutes._

A voice erupts to his left and he blindly lashes out, the pipe making solid contact, and there's the quiet sound of someone hitting the floor.

_2 minutes._

Martin runs the room's layout through his mind, and realizes he is likely at the center of the room. He freezes, tense, and waits.

_30 seconds._

There is still shouting around him, close now, uncomfortably so, but he readies himself, thinks _for Douglas_ and finds his strength.

_0._

The lights come back on with a startling brightness, and the group of thugs are left standing in a loose circle, blinking their eyes. It takes them a moment to realize there is someone else in their midst, and it's a second too long. Metal flashes, and of the five men standing, four are left conscious before they even register the threat.

It doesn't take long for the last four to snap out of it and leap at Martin. He had taken them by surprise and pushed it as far as he could, but he knew it would likely come to this. Martin isn't made for combat, he's a pilot not a fighter, but he came here to rescue someone more precious to him than anything, and he'll be damned if they don't walk out of here together.

Martin's head suddenly jerks, a fist slamming into his cheek, and he hits the floor hard, breath stolen and head spinning. The pipe clatters to the floor. One of the men leaps at him, bearing down on his prone form, and in the split second before the man is on him, Martin sees Douglas. The world seems to freeze, time slowed down, and Martin stares. They hurt him. Objectively he knows they did from the phone call, but _they hurt him_ and he can really see it now with his own eyes, bruises and cuts, torn clothing, a black eye, and dark red blood leaving trails down his face. Douglas' eyes are fixed on him, wide and shocked and _afraid_ and Douglas is never scared, never shows fear, and the rage in Martin ignites again.

Time speeds back up, and there's still a man about to land on him, and Martin reacts without thinking, one hand reaching around to his belt and grasping what he'd hidden there as a last resort. He brings his hand around, and lets the utility knife sink into the thug's leg. The man howls in pain, and drops, right over Martin, who shoves him away and into another man's legs, knocking him to the floor. That's two down for now, and Martin surges to his feet, adrenaline pumping and ready to end this.

Both of the remaining men come at him at once, and he jerks to the side instinctively, barely avoiding a punch to the gut, and pays for the miss with a sudden stinging across his face. One of the men had had a knife as well, and had just scored a cut, thin and shallow, but painful still. Martin ignores it, he can't allow himself to get distracted by anything, and ducks his head, bracing himself, and rugby tackling the knife wielder. They both hit the floor, but the impact knocks the blade away, and Martin pushes his advantage. He draws himself up and slams his entire body weight forward, and the man's head meets the floor with a loud crack. Martin winces, but spots the last man out of the corner of his eye, coming for him once again. He jerks to his feet, unsteady and waning but determined, and prepares for the next clash.

It is with no small measure of surprise that his opponent is abruptly taken out for him.

Martin watches in shock as a body barrels into the man, the apparent leader of the group, hard enough to send him reeling into the wall and knocking him out. The body straightens up slightly, and Martin realizes that Douglas had somehow managed to climb to his feet and end the fight. Douglas turns carefully to meet his gaze, one eye swollen shut, the other half-lidded with exhaustion and pain.

Martin promptly snaps into action, as he sees that and that Douglas is trembling. There's blood on his clothes, and his hands are actually bound behind his back, and he looks like an absolute mess, but Martin pulls him in close and holds tight. He pulls away after a beat, aware that they're both injured, but only takes a half-step back, not willing to separate himself from Douglas quite yet. His hands hurt, his face stings, and there's an ache in his chest from the exertion, his heart pounding, but Douglas is looking at him like he's a miracle in living form and Martin thinks he doesn't care how much he's physically hurting, because he did it.

He, Martin Crieff, did it. Against all odds, he made a plan, he executed it right, he fought five men and he rescued his friend. He thinks that maybe he's still incompetent, still incapable, still unfit, and a whole host of other things, but with this one thing accomplished, the most important thing he's ever set out to do, he finds he doesn't mind. Let him be all those things and more, because it doesn't matter. Who cares if he can't do anything right, because he has Douglas back now and Douglas can fix everything else.

=

Martin cuts Douglas free, frowning at the raw skin of his wrists, but finds his attention diverted when Douglas uses his now freed hand to cup Martin's jaw and turn his face. Martin nearly squeaks when he's suddenly face to face with Douglas, but stops himself, blinking rapidly instead. Douglas takes a moment to observe Martin, eyes lingering on the cut across his face, stretching from the bridge of his nose to the apple of his cheek. Something in Douglas' gaze softens, or perhaps shifts, and Martin only has a half-second to think about it before Douglas has leaned in and kissed him.

The kiss is sweet, soft and gentle because both men are sore and injured, but the warmth is welcoming and the spark of _something_ that flares between them is enough to temper the pain. Martin melts into the kiss, the small but meaningful contact, and Douglas does too, and they both feel a solid sort of content settle within. They pull away at the same time, breathing deep, but it's Martin who moves first.

They're still in the warehouse, five unconscious men around them, bleeding and tired, and Martin knows they should leave. He had called the police on his way over, one of them a friend of his, warning the woman of part of his plans. Knowing him enough to know how stubborn he was, she simply sighed and said she'd get someone to clean up the mess. Knowing it would be taken care of, and hearing the sirens close by, Martin leads Douglas outside.

=

A brief check-over by a paramedic, a quick questioning by police, and Martin is bundling Douglas into his van, shock blanket around his shoulders. They head back to Douglas' flat, and collapse in the living room. Their various cuts had been taken care of, so they simply let themselves fall onto the couch, the day finally catching up to them. Douglas pushes and prods and tugs until Martin is curled up to his side, a comfortable weight, and he looks down at him, with his head ducked self-consciously, faint flush across his face, and absently wonders how the hell Martin managed to pull off what he'd done.

Seeing the lights go out and come back, only for _Martin_ to be standing there, had been one of the most incredible things he had ever seen. Watching Martin fling himself at the group of men that had managed to subdue and pummel Douglas himself had him wondering what else Martin was hiding beneath his scrawny, stuttering frame. It was...impressive to say the least, and when he'd seen Martin go down, seen him bleed, Douglas had forced himself up to join the fray, because Martin might be rescuing him, but they were partners and partners had each other's back. Douglas presses a light kiss to Martin's head, feeling him tense and then relax, and they both sink back into the cushions.

=

They end up eventually moving to the bed, and Martin is flustered at first, but Douglas waves him off and only pulls him closer, already half-asleep. Martin swallows hard, thinks about how he could've lost Douglas, and wraps his arms around the other man's shoulders, tucking him into his chest. Especially with this new thing between them, Martin resolves to never let Douglas get hurt like that again, not if he could help it, unaware that Douglas had sworn much the same as well.


End file.
